


A Spark to a Fuse

by Anna_Louise



Category: In the Loop (2009) & The Thick of It, The Thick of It (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-06-27 08:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15681297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Louise/pseuds/Anna_Louise
Summary: Life after politics can be complicated, no matter which path you take. When two paths converge, however, you'd better watch your step.





	1. Everyone's Waiting

_ “Just swallow and breathe, she says; remember this ain’t for you, it’s for them; and all of those painful lessons that you’ve had to learn; you’re gonna use them now or never.”  
‘Everyone’s Waiting’ (Missy Higgins) _

* * *

** Saturday, 15th December 2018 **

She steps out of her car and looks skywards. The clouds overhead threaten snow; hardly a surprise in the middle of December, of course, but she despises snow and all the havoc it usually brings along with it.

She can’t recall being this terrified before. Not even when she’d had a declaration of her incompetence and density bellowed in her face, in the confined space of a minibus in central London. Not even when she had given birth to her first child, convinced she was destined to be a terrible mother.

The village is smaller than she had been anticipating. There is no doubt this is the correct house (even she isn’t capable of fucking up with a fully addressed envelope and Google Maps to aid her) but the small, dark church on the other side of the garden’s low wall, and its surrounding graveyard, is not at all inviting. Graveyards always have freaked her out a bit. How typical that he should lead her to one now.

If not for the church in her sights, she would curse. She would love nothing more than to jump up and down, screaming profanities and cursing his name at the top of her voice. And really, Nicola Murray does not care enough about religion for that to be what stops her. She doesn’t have quite that much respect for the Church, to put an exclusion zone around its building, in which she does not allow herself to curse. However, she does have the utmost respect for the dead who rest so close, and so she keeps those words for herself. Nobody else needs to hear them.

She wonders for a moment why the urge to curse and swear is stronger than the urge to cry. She hasn’t cried at all, and she’s normally weepy when faced with relatively small problems, never mind something this catastrophic. It may be that she’s just spent too much time around him, but there’s always the possibility that she has toughened up a little in the past few years.

The sun breaks through the dense clouds, the light coming through the cracks providing no warmth at all. The world should not feel so empty. More people than ever before now call this planet home. And yet, it is so empty that she is almost certain she hears the sunlight echo. Perhaps it’s the shock. Maybe that lingers still – that man has never done anything so predictable.

Children shout inside the small cottage, though Nicola knows they aren’t small children – they’re eleven and fifteen years of age. It sounds like laughter. Play fighting. She knows that sound well, having raised four children of her own. It’s cruel, the way she must shatter that. They are about to have someone they love ripped from them, and she must be the one to deliver that blow. It’s almost enough to make her chicken out and send the letter from the nearest postbox. Even doing it over the phone would be easier than this. All she wants to do is retreat.

But a curious face appears at the window. The girl points at Nicola and speaks; a woman, presumably her mother, joins her. The mother frowns, and Nicola can see she wants to know why a stranger is parked outside her home.

The idea of a phone call returns to Nicola, but she immediately banishes it. That would be utterly selfish. She cannot do this to another person without being there to provide any comfort and answers she can. But there’s a pressure on her skull and the air doesn’t seem to provide her with as much oxygen as it should, so she breathes, because it is all she is certain she knows in that moment, and tries to find it in her to do this one last thing for him and for them.

The mother – Kirsteen, Nicola knows her name is – vanishes for a moment until the front door opens. Nicola can easily see the resemblance, even with the whole of the front garden between them. Kirsteen is fairly tall and has a thin frame, and her pale blue eyes have that same penetrating glare Nicola has endured many times. Nicola raises her hand, an indication that she comes in peace. Of course, that does not mean this visit will be even remotely enjoyable for anyone involved.

“Can I help you!?” Kirsteen calls out. Nicola freezes. The accent is exactly the same as his: rough, harsh and Scottish. “Are you lost!?”

“No!” Nicola manages to shout back. “No, I don’t think so!”

“Then what are you doing?” Kirsteen demands; Nicola can hear the impatience in her tone.

Nicola’s feet take her forward, but she barely registers the movement. Every fibre of her being wants to turn and run. “I have to tell you something,” she says from the garden gate. “May I come in?”

Kirsteen is quite obviously wary, and it’s completely reasonable. Nicola is sure she must look quite, quite mad. “Aye,” she finally replies. “Come in.” Nicola isn’t sure if Kirsteen has decided to trust her, or if she simply pities the seemingly confused woman at her front gate. “It’s too cold to be standing out here. Come in and I’ll make a cup of tea.”

Relief spreads through Nicola, only to instantly be replaced by panic as she realises she has a job to do, and there is absolutely no way out of it now. It has to be done, whether she wants to do it this way or not. If she possessed any sense of self-preservation, she would do as he had told her to do in the first place.

Once in the door, Nicola sees the two children. The teenage girl eyes her suspiciously; the younger brother is far more relaxed. “Grace, Matthew, go through and start wrapping the Christmas presents for your father and your uncle,” Kirsteen orders them.

“But there’s still more than a week-” Grace begins to object, but a glower from her mother soon silences her. Nicola knows that look all too well.

With the children in another room, Kirsteen leads Nicola to her kitchen and puts the kettle on. “Sit down,” she offers politely. Nicola looks nervously at her but sits at the table all the same. Kirsteen has a similar demeanour to his, of a person with whom it would be wise not to argue.

When Kirsteen eventually places two mugs of tea on the table and sits opposite her, Nicola isn’t sure she knows what she ought to say. All she can find is, “You’re Kirsteen, aren’t you?”

“How do you know my name?” Kirsteen shoots back at her. “I’ve never even met you.”

“I’m Nicola. I know your brother,” she murmurs. “I worked with him, years ago.”

“Nobody works with my brother. They obey him and hope he doesn’t explode in the same room as them.”

Nicola smiles slightly; it seems Kirsteen views her brother through twenty-twenty vision. “That’s very true,” she says. “I know you haven’t seen him in a while.”

“He always makes some excuse,” grumbles Kirsteen. “If I didn’t know him so well, I’d say he doesn’t want anything to do with us.”

“He wanted to see you,” Nicola assures her quickly. “More than anything.”

She watches Kirsteen start to cotton on. “What’s happened? What’s he done now?”

“He’s…” Nicola attempts to begin, but words fail her.

Kirsteen frowns. “He’s what? What shit has he got himself into this time?” Nicola doesn’t know how to put any of this to a woman she doesn’t even know. Maybe she should just hand her the letter, but she hasn’t got it in her to make her read such news. “He’s not got himself jailed again, has he?” she asks.

“No. No, he’s not in prison.”

“Oh, good.” Nicola hears some of Kirsteen’s worry leave her in that sigh. “What’s up, then?”

“I’m so sorry,” whispers Nicola. The tears, hitherto conspicuous by their absence, now start to fall silently down her face. “Oh, God, I am sorry.”

Kirsteen drains white. “Nicola, tell me. Now.” That last word is commanding and assertive and yet filled with dread and fright.

“He’s gone,” Nicola says tearfully. “He died on Thursday evening.”

“I…” Kirsteen falters. She takes a steadying breath and places her hands down on the table, palms down. “How?”

“Pneumonia.”

Though this is a fairly sizable chunk of the truth, and it is what will be on the death certificate, Nicola has never been a particularly skilled liar, even when lying only by omission.

“Why didn’t anybody call me?” Kirsteen demands. She’s angry. It’s understandable, of course, but that does not make her any less frightening. Indeed, that her anger is justified only makes her more intimidating to Nicola.

“He asked me not to call. He said it would be too painful for you and your children.”

“There’s a time to do as he tells you and there’s a time to tell him to fuck off,” she retorts.

“I tried. I tried to save him, Kirsteen,” says Nicola. For some reason, she needs Kirsteen to know this. “I took care of him as best I could.”

“Took care of him?”

“As best I could,” she repeats herself. “But you know him. I might as well have been trying to reason with a brick wall most of the time.”

“Where will he be buried?”

The abrupt change of direction unnerves Nicola a little. “London. He asked to be buried in London.”

Kirsteen stares at her and says, “You’re speaking about him like he knew he was dying. Like he accepted it.”

“Mum?” a voice asks from the door. “There’s no more sticky tape.” Grace, the teenage girl, stands at the kitchen door behind Nicola, worry and suspicion painted across her young face. “What’s going on?”

Nicola turns and looks at Kirsteen – Grace, after all, is her child – but quickly sees that she doesn’t know what to tell her daughter. “You’ll get tape in the top drawer in the living room,” Kirsteen says, avoiding Grace’s question. She doesn’t tell Grace not to wrap the presents for her uncle; Nicola finds that a bit odd, but who is she to judge?

Grace obeys, albeit reluctantly. Kirsteen lets out a breath as the door closes behind Grace, and puts her face into her hands. “I don’t understand. This doesn’t make any sense at all.”

From her coat pocket, Nicola takes out an envelope and offers it to Kirsteen. “He asked me to post this to you, but it didn’t feel right to just send a letter in the mail. It’s not how I’d want to hear this news.”

Kirsteen takes the envelope and opens it; Nicola watches as she begins to read. She doesn’t know exactly what is written in that letter, or how much he has said. He has left her to grope around blindly in the dark. Kirsteen’s hand is over her mouth, and her eyes are filled with tears, but her expression is somewhat kinder, like she finally understands that Nicola is not her enemy here. “He knew. He’s known for nearly two years. And he didn’t need to fucking die!” Kirsteen moans. “He should’ve come to me, the stubborn old goat!”

Nicola tries to disguise her smirk, for she knows perfectly well how stubborn he was. “There was no telling him. You know as well as I do he can’t be dissuaded from what he believes is best.”

“Always has to be right.”

“Exactly.”

“How well do you know him?”

That’s one question Nicola isn’t keen on answering, but she gets the impression that Kirsteen isn’t the sort of woman who lets things go very easily. “Fairly well.”

“Are you friends?” asks Kirsteen.

It’s at this point Nicola makes the decision to be a little more economical with the truth; to give too much information, to drown Kirsteen in news, might be a mistake. “As close to friends as he ever allowed anyone to become.”

Kirsteen nods once, and Nicola takes it to mean that she understands enough about her brother to know how difficult he was capable of being. “This is why he didn’t go to Mum’s funeral, isn’t it?” she sighs.

“Yes. He didn’t want to upset you or your children any further.”

“No, he’s not that noble,” she corrects Nicola firmly. “He was scared of me seeing him. He might be brave when it comes to politics – I don’t know, I’ve never really seen him at it – but he’s always been terrified of being seen as frail or weak, even as a teenager.”

And though she knows the reasons he had given her for his absence at his own mother’s funeral, Nicola doesn’t doubt the possibility that he may have been motivated more by fear and shame than by selfless grace and compassion. “You’re ten years younger than him, aren’t you?”

“Aye. Mum and Dad were nineteen when they had him. Waited a bit before having me. Or maybe he was just too much of a fucking nightmare for the first decade of his life,” Kirsteen adds venomously. That surprises Nicola; the sadness in her eyes is genuine, and yet she holds vicious feelings towards him. What kind of relationship had they shared? Had it been close? Or had his very nature been a sky-high wall between the two of them? “God, he’s infuriating!” she exclaims. “Doesn’t do anything like a normal bloody person, does he?”

Nicola notices how Kirsteen talks about him in the present tense and realises she has already taken to thinking of him in the past tense. How long will it take for Kirsteen to develop that acceptance? “He asked me to book a hotel and train tickets for you and the children. The funeral will be on Wednesday morning; all the details are there for you. Your ex-husband-”

“Will not be coming with us,” Kirsteen finishes the sentence. “Let’s just say the two of them never really saw eye to eye. And I think I’d throw John in the Thames if I had to go to London with him.”

Nicola can’t help but smile at that. “I’ve got one of those myself.”

“We keep it civil for Matthew and Grace, but I’d love to give him a piece of my mind more often than I do. That’s part of why they never got on – Malcolm has no problem telling John exactly what he thinks.”

She doesn’t need anyone to tell her he didn’t hide his opinions; Nicola’s been on the receiving end of that mouth more times than she cares to remember. “I must go,” Nicola says. “It’s a long drive back home and it looks like the weather is going to change.”

“Yeah, you better hit the road.” They stand up and leave the kitchen, heading for the front door. Outside, on the doorstep, Kirsteen shakes Nicola’s hand. “Listen, thank you for telling me in person. I know it must’ve been hard. And thank you for doing your best for him. He can’t have made that easy, either.” It makes Nicola wonder about what’s in that letter, that she is now being thanked rather than scolded. “I’ll see you down south.”

Nicola smiles and nods, and says, “Goodbye.”

Safely back inside the car, she starts to drive and breathe. Everything is final. It’s odd that some people insist that everything in life is temporary. Death isn’t. The end of a life is very much permanent. It’s at the very next layby, less than a mile away, that Nicola is forced to pull over and stop the car. She notices only now that she’s been swallowing back tears ever since she left Kirsteen’s house; the pressure in her head is now a deep ache. “If you weren’t dead, I’d fucking kill you myself, Malcolm Tucker. You knew I’d go and see her. You knew I can’t just send a letter. Fucking manipulating me from beyond the grave, you twat.”


	2. Happy

_ “I wasn’t born to make you happy; I wasn’t born to make you sad; I know you see my sweet surrender; you’re still the bitch that makes me mad.”  
‘Happy’ (The View) _

* * *

** Tuesday, 28th February 2017 **

Nicola walks into the medical centre with a sigh. Katie, her eldest daughter, has forgotten to take her anxiety medication and called her mum for help. “Hey, sweetheart,” Nicola says with a smile. “Here you go. Try to keep some in your bag or coat, alright? I know it’s hard to remember but it’s important.”

Katie rolls her eyes but kisses Nicola’s cheek. “Thanks, Mum.”

Nicola doesn’t harass her about it; she’s only been on the medication for a week, and her job is demanding on her body, her time, and her mind. “You’re welcome.”

“It’s time for my lunch break. Want to get a coffee? From the café on the high street,” Katie says, grinning at the look of distaste Nicola knows she must be wearing at the thought of machine or staff room coffee. She takes Nicola by the arm and guides her off the ward. “You know Dad’s trying to get hold of you, don’t you?” she asks conversationally.

“I’m well aware, yes,” replies Nicola. She’s in no mood to be dealing with James Murray, but she knows she has to talk to him for the kids’ sake more than anything else. “What does he want now?”

“To take Jack on holiday in June,” Katie tells her.

“Where?”

“Thailand.”

“Not happening,” Nicola immediately retorts. “June is term time, and Jack needs to be in school. He struggles enough as it is without whisking him away for a fortnight of your father’s bad influence. Fucking Thailand – if James had an ounce of sense he’d be the most dangerous man on the planet!”

“I told him you’d say no,” Katie assures her. “But Dad’s saying it would be a ‘character building’ trip.”

“Yeah, character building in the sense that he’d leave Jack to fend for himself while he goes drinking and snorting white powder off prostitutes,” spits Nicola. Katie looks taken aback by the outburst; Nicola realises she’s never let her children know just how irresponsible their father is. But Katie is twenty-four years old now, and has probably made her own observations. “Sorry, sweetheart, but your Dad can’t be trusted on that front.”

“I’d gathered that, funnily enough.”

“Tell him he can take all of you on a family holiday or he’s not taking Jack.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious that he wants to take Jack but not you, Ella or Hannah?”

“I don’t want to go on holiday with him,” admits Katie. “And Hannah hates his guts at the moment.”

“What’s he done now?” Nicola groans.

“You don’t wanna know,” Katie says darkly. “I’m handling it.”

“Katie.”

“Mum, seriously, it’s under control. Dad’s just being an arsehole as usual. Not worth bothering your mind with.”

That’s never a good sign, when Katie feels the need to keep Nicola out of whatever ridiculous situation James has concocted with his shit attempts at parenting. “Is it something that’s going to come back and bite me in the arse in a few weeks or months? At least give me some sort of heads up.”

“It’s under control,” repeats Katie.

Nicola very much doubts that. “Have you even _met_ your father?” she asks hotly. “You’d need a straight jacket and half of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces to keep him under control!” She hears the panic in her own voice and tries to calm herself, but it doesn’t seem to have much of a positive effect. “Just bloody well tell me, Katie!”

“Alright, keep your wig on!” Nicola glares at her for her cheek. “Hannah’s hired someone to help her with her A-Levels. She’s really been struggling.”

“She should’ve said! I’d have got her a tutor!” Nicola says.

“She says she’s got a weekend job,” Katie shrugs. “Doesn’t think you or dad should have to pay for her being thick. Her words, not mine,” she adds hastily. “So Dad found out and he’s been trying to make her use the same tutor his mate’s son uses, but Hannah says the guy she’s hired understands how her mind works and she actually learns something with him.”

Nicola takes her coat off and sits down at a table in the café. “What subject is she struggling with?”

“English and Politics.”

“And she never thought to ask me for help? I was Leader of the Opposition, for Christ’s sake!”

“I think she’s embarrassed. And she did say she wants someone less biased than you to teach her.”

“I’ll talk to her,” says Nicola.

“Leave her to it, Mum. She’s got her head screwed on tighter than Ella or I ever did.”

“But why is your father throwing his toys out of the pram?” That part makes no sense – even James isn’t petty enough to sulk because Hannah has chosen a different tutor than his circle of twattish friends.

Katie looks up at the waitress and orders what they usually have in this café: two lattes and two cheese, tomato and pepper paninis. Once the waitress has left, Katie begins to explain the situation in more detail. “Dad is pissed off because the tutor isn’t a trained teacher. Hannah says he’s got a degree in English and he’s worked for both government and opposition. He’s got real-world experience. If that’s the kind of person she learns best from, we should just trust she knows herself well enough to do what’s right for her.”

Nicola takes a breath, but it’s rather shaky. She’s been under pressure, with Jack acting out at school, Katie having trouble with her mental health and Ella being at university, her own issues seem to fall to the back of the queue. Though she has her part-time post as a consultant for her party, she is completely rudderless; of course, it never helps when most of your job revolves around telling people not to make the same fuck ups she did when she was party leader. She finds herself uttering the words, “Do as I say, not as I did,” alarmingly often these days.

“Mum, are you okay?” asks Katie.

“Yes, darling, I’m fine.” She changes the subject so she doesn’t have to say what she’s thinking. “How are you getting on with your medication?”

“Apart from forgetting to take it?” Katie replies.

“Everyone forgets once in a while, even a super-organised nurse-type like you.”

Katie pulls a face at her but says, “I have more energy, I think. And I find it easier to stop myself getting so wound up that I can’t work.”

Nicola reaches out and rubs Katie’s shoulder. “Good. Maybe it’ll get better.”

* * *

 

That evening, with pizza ordered, Nicola sits in her living room with all four of her children. Jack is playing some mad game on his PlayStation (it involves more killing than Nicola would like) while Ella writes an essay as she eats. Katie watches Jack, while Nicola takes the time to reassure Hannah. “I just wish you’d told me, love,” she says. “I could’ve helped.”

“It’s my responsibility to get through my exams, Mum,” Hannah says firmly. “Not yours.”

“It’s my responsibility to help you in any way I can. But if this tutor knows how to teach you, then great. Don’t listen to your father.”

“If I had a pound for every time you’ve said that, I wouldn’t need to finish school,” Hannah says before biting into her pizza.

Nicola realises that’s probably true; she must stop undermining James all the time. That would be easier if he’d refrain from being utterly useless, though. “Mum, why can’t I go to Thailand with Dad?” Jack asks.

“You can’t go to Thailand with your father because you are fourteen years of age and I don’t trust him not to fuck off and leave you on your own,” Nicola says brutally. “If your father takes any of you on holiday, he takes all of you, and he takes you when you’re not meant to be at school.”

“Fuck my life,” mutters Jack.

“Language, Jack Murray!”

“You literally just swore!”

“I’m not a child!”

“Neither am I!”

“Oh, I’m _so_ sorry,” Nicola answers him sarcastically. “Did I miss your eighteenth birthday party?”

Katie, Hannah and Ella snigger as their little brother shoots someone down on the television screen with an ill-tempered jeer. Nicola sorely wants to snap at her son, but knows she must choose her battles wisely when he’s being difficult. He’s so like his father that fighting him rarely does any good. All it ever achieves is World War Three in the confines of four walls.

Ella looks up from her laptop. “Mum, spell ‘aluminium’ for me.”

Hannah chips in before Nicola can even think about it. “A-L-U-M-I-N-I-U-M.”

“Cheers, Hannah Banana. Bloody thing keeps setting itself to spell like an American,” she sighs, tapping the space bar with harsh impatience. “Argh!” she shouts. “It keeps autocorrecting it!” She never did have much tolerance for things that don’t work as they ought to.

“Ella, put it down, eat your pizza and go back to it when you’ve calmed down,” Nicola orders her daughter rather sternly. “It’s not worth getting so worked up about.”

“But it’s due-”

“Your stress levels are more important than a deadline.”

Ella huffs slightly but saves her work and closes her laptop over. “What are you playing, Jack?” she asks. Nicola knows Ella has very little interest in Jack’s video games, but it’s the only way to make conversation with him these days.

“Watchdogs,” Jack says curtly as he hijacks a car and murders its driver.

The doorbell rings; it startles Nicola, plainly because it’s a bit late to be expecting anyone at her door. With a tired sigh, she gets up and opens the door. Nicola freezes. The world seems to contract around her, like the walls are moving inwards – she’s trapped. She hasn’t seen that face for five years, and now she can’t stop looking at it.

“Hi,” he says. She can hear the faintest hint of nerves shake his voice, and his face is pale and vaguely grey; he must have known whose house this is before he came. “Is Hannah about?”

“What the hell do _you_ want with my daughter?” Nicola snarls at him.

“Malcolm?” Hannah’s voice says beside Nicola. “What’s up?”

He passes a book and a folder to Hannah. “You left these. Thought you’d need them tomorrow.”

Nicola slams the door shut and rounds on Hannah. “How do you know him!?” she shouts.

“He’s my tutor!”

“ _He_ is the fucking tutor!? Do you know who he is!?”

“He’s the man who got himself in a lot of trouble trying to do you out of a job,” Hannah says calmly. “You were the one who called for the inquiry, though.”

Nicola glowers at Hannah, ignoring her other three children’s awed smirks, and opens the door. Malcolm Tucker still stands there, looking…well, looking like he’s just had a door slammed in his face. She grabs him by the coat and pulls him into the house. It’s the first time she can recall ever seeing any kind of physical fear in him. “Okay, I can see you’re a wee bit ticked off-”

“ _A wee bit ticked off_!?” Nicola repeats shrilly. “You’ve been seeing my daughter behind my back!”

“Oh, fucking listen to yourself, Nicola!” he bellows. “I’ve been helping her with her coursework! It’s not some kind of sick, sordid affair!”

Hannah looks at Nicola and says, “He told me you’d react like this. Jesus, Mum-”

“Not helpful,” Malcolm cuts in. “Look, it’s nothing to worry about. All we’re doing is trying to get her through her A-Levels.”

Nicola turns to Hannah. “How much are you paying him?”

“I’m not paying him, so to speak,” Hannah says carefully. “I go over on Sundays and help him with stuff around the house. Food prep and hoovering and stuff.”

That is the last thing Nicola expects to hear. “Why on Earth would he need you to do that?”

“Well, he put out an ad for some help once a week, and I went to check it out. We got talking and I said I needed the money for a tutor because my A-Levels are killing me. Malcolm said he would tutor me as much as I want if I help him out every Sunday. I go and see him on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays,” Hannah says. It doesn’t answer Nicola’s question at all, but she doesn’t care enough about Malcolm Tucker to repeat herself.

“No,” Nicola decides abruptly. “No, this isn’t going to happen. We’ll get you a proper tutor. One that I trust not to fuck up your education to spite me.”

Malcolm laughs loudly. “You sound mental!” he shouts exasperatedly. “Fuck me, I’m actually doing a half-decent job here!”

Nicola goes to sit on the stairs, never taking her eyes off Malcolm. He’s up to something. He’s lying about something – even after five years free of his mind games, she’s sure of that. “Hannah, if you’re insistent that you want him to tutor you, it happens here, when I’m around to supervise.”

“That won’t work,” Hannah quickly says. Nicola shoots her a hard, cold look. “Malcolm can’t always come out here. It’s easier for me to go to him.”

“How long has this been going on?” asks Ella.

“Since the New Year,” Malcolm says.

“That’s two months,” Ella says calmly. “If it’s been two months and nothing bad’s happened, what’s the big deal?”

“ _Him_!” Nicola exclaims. “You don’t know him like I do!”

“You don’t fucking know me anymore!” Malcolm snaps. “Give me one good reason I would sabotage Hannah’s A-Levels!”

“To get at me!”

“I haven’t got the fucking energy to waste on getting at you!” He walks through to the living room and sits down on the sofa. “The world doesn’t revolve around Nicola fucking Murray! You haven’t fucking changed at all, have you, you demented old lunatic!?” he calls out.

Nicola jumps to her feet. “You just don’t get it, do you!?” she roars. When she gets to the living room, she notices he sits awkwardly, like he’s uncomfortable. “I can’t have you interfering in my life! You’re such a fucking twat!”

Hannah stands between Nicola and Malcolm. “Leave him alone, Mum,” she says. Her tone is perfectly stable, and yet Nicola has never known Hannah to look so worried. “If he crosses any lines, pisses me off in any way, you’ll be the first to know about it, alright? Just, please, lay off him.”

Surprised, Nicola steps back and holds up her hands. “Fine. But when it backfires, don’t say I didn’t tell you he’s a fucking bastard.”

“Noted,” Hannah says.

From the gunshots behind her, Nicola knows Jack has lost interest in the situation and went back to his game. “Get out, Malcolm,” she sighs, rubbing her temples as a headache starts to attack. He nods once and stands up with a groan. Hannah holds him by the upper arm as he straightens himself out and leads him to the front door; Nicola listens to Hannah bidding Malcolm goodnight.

When the door is shut and Hannah returns with her sisters, Nicola doesn’t know what to say. Why the fuck would Hannah go anywhere near Malcolm Tucker? “You sulking with me?” Hannah asks tentatively.

“No. I’m just…I’m in shock.”

“He’s not the Devil, Mum.”

“No,” agrees Nicola. “No, he’s _so_ much worse than that.”

Hannah shakes her head and picks up a slice of pizza and a can of Coke. “I’ll be in my room watching Netflix if anyone wants me.”

Nicola sinks down into the couch Malcolm has just vacated, staring up at the ceiling. She’s not in control of this family at all. She’s not the one in charge, as much as she likes to fool herself that she is. All she can do is repeat the words she had scolded her own son for this evening: “Fuck my life.”


	3. You Know

_ “Bless all those mothers who do all they can just to take their faults out of the line; I might not know what it’s like but I’m glad that you know.”  
‘You Know’ (Laura Marling)_

* * *

** Sunday, 5th March 2017 **

“Why don’t you come with me?” suggests Hannah. “Come and see what I do for him. You’ll see how innocent everything is, how much it helps him.”

“I’ll pass,” Nicola declines coldly. “He doesn’t deserve any help.”

“How can you say that, Mum? Everybody deserves the help they need.” Just for a fraction of a second, Nicola sees herself in Hannah; the young, idealistic Nicola who had wanted to change her country for the better.

“That man drove me half-mad for years! He fucked with my head, he fucked with my career – he even fucked with Ella’s education!”

“That was then. What if he’s changed?”

“Poison can’t be made benign. Add any flavour you want to it but it’ll kill you just the same.”

Hannah leans against the kitchen counter and drinks from her mug of tea. “I’ve never seen you so hateful.”

“That’s because I’ve never hated anyone like I hate him.”

“Hate is foolish,” Hannah says sharply. “It doesn’t do anybody any good, least of all you.”

“Don’t pretend you know-”

“But I do know,” Hannah interrupts. “It would’ve been so easy to hate you and Dad, you know. I never saw you, and when I did you were always killing each other. Sometimes I _did_ hate you, but then I saw it was hurting me more than it could ever hurt either of you.”

Nicola stares at Hannah. How could she have failed to notice that? Her kids have grown up faster than they should – with the exception of Jack, who seems to have fully matured at the age of twelve, destined to remain that way for life. It stings, the reminder that she let Westminster and all the insanity that came with it take over her life; it’s one of the many things for which she cannot forgive Malcolm Tucker. He’s the one who kept her treading water in a vat of poison, only to drown her at his chosen moment.

Hannah finishes her tea and starts washing the mug. “I’m not asking you to be best mates. I just want to have this arrangement without you making me feel like I’m stabbing you in the back,” she says. “This is good for me. He’s helping me so much with my coursework; the way he explains things is so much clearer to me than any teacher I’ve ever had.”

Guilt starts to creep into Nicola’s veins. Hannah’s heart always has been stronger than her sense of self-preservation. She doesn’t quite know how Hannah turned out to be so kindhearted, but then Nicola also doesn’t understand how Katie decided she’ll spend her life as a nurse, either. The adults surrounding those four kids are politicians and businesspeople – not nurses or carers. Have they learned how to live by seeing from her and James what they shouldn’t be doing?

“Darling, I just don’t want to see him use your good nature against you,” Nicola sighs.

“He’s not going to. I know you don’t believe me, but he’s not half as bad as you say he used to be.”

“Once bitten and all that,” Nicola says gently.

Hannah looks at her watch. “I’d better go. Be back soon. Love you!”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

** Friday, 10th March 2017 **

It isn’t typical of Hannah Jessica Murray to fight. She has a tendency to allow things to happen and deal with the aftermath in due course; that’s partly why Nicola had been surprised to find out Hannah had taken it upon herself to seek help with her studies. And yet, Nicola is standing in the living room arguing with her daughter about a party she wants to go to. “So you’re telling me you find school so hard that you let Malcolm fucking Tucker tutor you, but you can swan off to some delinquents’ piss up!?” Nicola bursts out in temper. She’s been holding that back for over two weeks, that resentment over Hannah’s visits to Malcolm.

Hannah puts her hands over her face. “Not _this_ again!” she groans.

“Yes, _this again_!” Nicola says heatedly.

“It’s just tuition, for crying out loud! What’s your bloody problem!?”

“Him! He’s a-”

But Nicola doesn’t get to say exactly what Malcolm Tucker is. “You’re so stupid, Mum!” Hannah snaps. The frustration in her voice and face is unmistakable. “You don’t _want_ to know about him! You just want to spend the rest of your miserable existence hating him!”

“I don’t understand why you _don’t_ hate him!”

“I know him!” she bellows. It stuns Nicola for a moment; Hannah has never been one for shouting and bawling. “He’s got a sister; her name is Kirsteen! Did you know that!? And a niece and nephew! His favourite colour is turquoise. He likes tomato soup and ketchup but can’t stand tomatoes. He’s allergic to bee stings. He jumped off the school shed for a dare when he was eight and broke his wrist in two places. He got married when he was nineteen and got divorced ten months later – they’re still friends. They were just not suited to being married. There’s so much more to him than the politics and total bullshit you’re so desperate to cling on to! It’s pathetic, and it’s the mark of the worst kind of stupidity: not _wanting_ to know any better.”

It’s not the first time Nicola’s been told she’s stupid and she’s certain it won’t be the last, but for her own daughter to call her stupid still smarts like a slap in the face. That moment of hurt transforms itself into fury in a split second.

“Go to your room!”

“No!” she shouts. “I’m going out!” She grabs her phone and her purse from the table and stalks out to the front door.

“Get back here! Now!” Nicola orders, but Hannah slams the door behind her.

“How come she gets to go out to parties and I’m stuck here!?” Jack asks from the stairs. He must have come down to see what the shouting was for.

Nicola turns on him. “Don’t you dare even start! I am _not_ in the mood for you so if you’re going to be an irritant, get out of my sight and go to your room!”

For just a moment, Jack’s expression is one of hurt before he papers over it with a glower; Nicola finds herself riddled with guilt once again as he turns his back on her and stomps up to his bedroom. The house seems to shudder with the crash of his door closing. Nicola pulls her phone out and calls Hannah, but it goes to voicemail after a single ring. The one thing left to do is send a text message: _Call me if you need me to pick you up x_

The cruellest part of Nicola’s heart would very much like to switch her phone off and teach Hannah a lesson about storming out the house in a row, but she doesn’t have it in her to do it. That’s more James’ style. She almost tells him what Hannah has done, to warn him that she might show up at his door, but it’s just another opportunity for him to sneer at her flaws as a parent. It’s better to say nothing to him. Besides, it’s ten o’clock on a Friday night – he’s probably already as drunk as Hannah intends to be.

In no humour for anything else, Nicola locks the door and heads to bed, where she knows she will not have any sort of restful sleep.

* * *

** Saturday, 11th March 2017 **

The ringing of her phone is shrill in the dead of night, but Hannah’s name on the screen wakes Nicola up sharply, even at nearly three in the morning. “Hannah?” she asks.

“It’s, uh, it’s not Hannah.” Nicola sits bolt upright. “It’s Malcolm.”

“Where’s Hannah?”

“She’s okay,” he says quickly. “She’s asleep in my spare room.”

Nicola gets out of bed and starts to get dressed in such a rush that she trips over her own feet. “Text me your address. I’ll come and get her.”

“There’s no need. Let her sleep it off and I’ll send her home when she’s-”

Nicola hangs up on him. There is no way he is going to dictate to her how she ought to look after her own children. He has no place in their lives – James is enough of a twat for everyone to have to deal with. She doesn’t need anybody else adding to her problems.

Finally out of the door and in her car, her phone sounds and lights up; Malcolm has sent his address from Hannah’s phone. She’s much too tired for driving, but the fact her child needs her forces her to overcome that. The streetlights are far too bright and almost blind her, but thankfully the roads are fairly quiet. It dampens her anxiety just a little to know she is less than likely to crash into anyone. It’s the one thing that probably won’t go wrong. Everything else, she accepts, will probably go to shit.

The rain is lashing down, though, bouncing off the windows and flooding her windscreen quicker than the wipers can dispel it. It impairs her vision.

As she turns right onto Malcolm’s street, she wonders how she had never realised he lives so close. If she’d known that she wouldn’t have moved here after the divorce. She likes to have a five-mile exclusion zone between herself and Malcolm Tucker. But still she parks outside his house, ducks through the rain and rings his doorbell. He takes what seems like an age to open the door. “She’s asleep,” is the first thing he says, his voice low. “Come in.”

“No.”

“Don’t be fucking childish,” he hisses at her. “I told you to stay at home, didn’t I?”

“I don’t do as you say anymore,” she reminds him venomously. “Give me my daughter.”

“She’s asleep,” he repeats. “She’s completely fucking wasted, too. The girl needs to sleep it off.”

Nicola stares at him suspiciously, but then walks through his front door when he steps aside in invitation. He leads her to a bedroom, immaculate and impersonal, where Hannah lies under a duvet and a throw, snoring softly. “Why did she come to you?” Nicola whispers.

“‘Cause she knew she’d get a bollocking if she went home, and she’s not speaking to her reprobate of a father. I never thought you had it in you to actually go and divorce the cunt.”

It’s a hard effort she makes not to snap there and then; she only refrains so she doesn’t wake Hannah. She’s well versed at that. It’s exactly what she used to do when she argued with James, for she never wanted to let the children hear them, or get them out of bed to a row. Even though her marriage had been a complete catastrophe, she always tried, and still does, to keep the most vicious fights away from the kids; it’s not their fault, after all.

Malcolm beckons her down the hall to the living room. She’s glad he doesn’t ask about the argument she and Hannah had before she went to that party; it’s not something she wants to discuss with Malcolm Tucker. “D’you want a drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”

She’s never known this level of unironic politeness from Malcolm Tucker. Maybe someone thumped him over the head when he was in prison and knocked a new personality into him. “I have to drive home,” she reminds him. She can’t keep the coldness out of her voice, no matter how much she tries to be gracious for Hannah’s sake.

“Cup of tea, then,” he proposes. He leaves her for a couple of minutes, during which she looks around the room. The only photographs of people in here are of a woman, a girl and a boy, and an elderly woman and man. At least, that’s all she sees at first glance. She now notices a Polaroid on the mantlepiece of a young man and woman – Malcolm, aged about twenty, and a woman of the same age. She can only presume it’s his ex-wife.

When he returns, Malcolm presses a hot mug of tea into Nicola’s hands. In this light, he seems thinner than she remembers; he always was quite tall and slim, of course, but she can’t recall him ever appearing this small. “Thanks,” she murmurs.

“No problem,” he says. She could swear there’s the tiniest ghost of a smile on his lips. “She’s a good kid, you know. Not very much like you, except for the unbridled idealism.”

Nicola sits back down when he does. “I tried not to pass on any of my own character traits. Seems to have worked better with Hannah than it has with the other three.”

“Good. The last thing the world needs is another generation of Nicola Murrays.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure it needs another generation of Malcolm Tuckers, either,” she retorts.

“Just as well I haven’t got kids then, isn’t it?”

She pauses for a moment, unsure of what to say to that; the only thing she knows how to do is change the subject. “Why do you need my daughter?” she asks. She does her best to keep her resentment hidden, but she can’t really tell whether or not she’s managed it.

“She needs a tutor, and I need a bit of help.” He says it like it’s the simplest concept in the world.

“But _why_ do you need any help at all? The Malcolm Tucker I know doesn’t want help from anyone, let alone a seventeen-year-old girl.”

“Maybe I’m not quite the same as I was when you knew me.”

Nicola sets her mug down on the table. “You’re not going to tell me the truth, are you?” she sighs.

“Give me one fucking reason why I should,” he snorts.

“You’re seeing my daughter three days out of seven.”

He drinks his tea for a moment before he answers. “Let’s just say my health hasn’t been at its best since Christmas.” Nicola feels a fleeting breeze of sympathy for him – one thing she did not expect to feel for him. “So I need a little bit of help. But I also don’t want some fucking nurse or home help treating me like an invalid, so I thought I’d appeal to the masses of broke students.”

“And you found Hannah.”

“I didn’t figure out she’s your kid until about two weeks in. She mentioned her mum used to be the Leader of the Opposition and the penny dropped,” he explains. “Thing is, we get on. I’m not gonna refuse to deal with her because she has the misfortune to be your daughter.”

The personal insults are going to take some getting used to, after all these years. “I’m still not happy about all this.”

“I’ve fucking noticed.”

“Promise me you won’t hurt her.”

“Of course I won’t hurt her!” he protests; he sounds indignant, which Nicola finds almost amusing. Given his history, it’s reasonable to assume that, at some point, he will hurt Hannah. “Jesus fucking Christ. I promise, Nicola, I’m not out to hurt Hannah.”

Nicola nods her head once and finishes her tea in silence. When her mug is empty, Malcolm takes it from her, holding both his and hers by the handles in his left hand. “If you want to get home, I’ll look after her. I’ll take her home when she’s fit for it.” It crosses her mind to refuse, to tell him she wouldn’t leave a rat in his care, never mind her own child. But there’s a rare sincerity written on his face. “Seriously, Nic’la, get home and go back to bed. She’ll probably sleep ‘til fucking noon anyway.”

“Alright. Okay, I’ll go. But if I have to come back, I will.”

“Obviously, yeah.”

She rises to her feet and she hesitantly holds out her hand to him. It’s almost a relief when he gently shakes it; she hasn’t misjudged the atmosphere. “Thanks for taking her in.”

“What am I gonna do, tell her to walk home in the early hours of the morning and hope she doesn’t get fucking raped or murdered?” he says.

And right then she realises he’s still the same man in a slightly weaker body. He’ll accept thanks for a cup of tea, but not for giving a drunk and misguided teenager shelter.


	4. I Met Up With the King

_ “I met up with the King; he confessed his body was burning; I met up with the King; his body had began to rot; and he said, ‘Don’t think less of me; I’m still the same man I used to be.’ But no-one believed him; no-one believed him.”  
‘I Met Up With the King’ (First Aid Kit) _

* * *

** Saturday, 11th March 2017 **

True to his word, Malcolm appears at Nicola’s front door late into the afternoon, accompanied by a thoroughly hungover Hannah. Nicola can’t resist glowering under her eyebrows at them, for they both have been making her life needlessly complicated. But despite herself, Nicola is unwillingly grateful that someone had her daughter’s back through the night, even if it happens to have been Malcolm Tucker.

It’s Hannah who invites him into the house before Nicola processes her intention to object.

Before she can do anything to put a stop to it, Nicola finds herself in her kitchen with Malcolm; he insists on helping her make tea and coffee. That in itself is unsettling; the man she had worked with would rather have jumped under a bus than help her with no ulterior motive.

She watches him. He pours water from the kettle with his left hand. He leans on his left leg. He walks with a slight gait. He favours his left side, and Nicola cannot understand how she hasn’t noticed it before now. She can’t recall him ever favouring one side or the other – indeed, she can distinctly remember him thumping on doors and striding through buildings with all the energy of a perfectly fit man.

It feels like she would be wrong to ask, so she busies herself with putting biscuits onto a plate while Malcolm pours milk into the mugs.

“Mind and pick up a couple pints of milk next time you’re at the shop, Madeleine,” he says.

Nicola turns to see him closing the fridge door, and when his gaze falls on her, his whole body seems to turn to stone. “Jesus, Malcolm, I know it’s been a while but I’d hoped you’d at least remember my name,” she says to him. It’s a feeble response, but she can only try and joke about it. It’s not just that he’s called her by another’s name – he’s just spoken to her in such an offhand way, like he lives with her.

He comes back to himself quickly. “Fuck. Nicola. Not Madeleine. Right. Sorry about that,” he mumbles. Beyond that apology, he ignores the fact he has called her by the wrong name and takes two full mugs from the counter. Now that she’s noticed his leanings, she can’t help but focus on the fact he holds one higher and steadier than the other.

Trying to put it out of her mind, she picks up the third mug and the plate of biscuits and follows him through to the living room, where Hannah sits on the couch looking rather sorry for herself. Nicola doesn’t have it in her to punish Hannah – the hangover seems to be doing its job.

Malcolm and Hannah are friends. Nicola is able to see that now. It’s in the way Malcolm gently mocks Hannah’s hangover and in the silly faces Hannah pulls in retaliation. God knows Nicola doesn’t want to see her daughter befriend that man, but it would appear that ship has well and truly sailed. “When're your exams?” Malcolm asks.

“June,” Hannah replies; the sudden weariness in her voice goes beyond what seems reasonable. Malcolm must have noticed it too, but his reaction isn’t the one Nicola expects: he looks down into his mug for a moment, apparently disheartened. Nicola doesn’t think she has ever seen anyone look so defeated. “Doesn’t your niece have exams this year?” she asks.

Malcolm looks up. “She’s in third year, so she’s doing mocks. Her Nationals are next year.” It doesn’t sit right, hearing him talk of family. She often forgets he’s a human being and that he didn’t just materialise one day as the Prime Minister’s enforcer-slash-keeper. He’s got a family and a past and a future, just like she does. “My nephew goes into Primary 6 in August, too. God help him when he goes to secondary school,” he scoffs into his mug. “The boy’s just like his mother – a daydreamer.”

“Nothing wrong with being a daydreamer,” Nicola says defensively.

Malcolm stares at her for half a second before he smirks, “I can just imagine you in a fucking classroom. You’re the kid who gets lines for doodling in her jotter instead of copying the timeline of English monarchy off the blackboard.”

The one thing Nicola cannot do is admit that, yes, she had been punished many times for doodling instead of copying from the blackboard. “I’ll have you know I excelled in History.”

His amused expression tells her he’s winding her up, and she’s fallen into the trap far too easily.

Reluctant as she is to show him any weakness, she allows him a smile and a shake of her head. Nicola doesn’t say much from that point onwards; all it does is invite him to prod at her. But she witnesses the truth in what Malcolm had said when she visited him. He and Hannah really do get on brilliantly. They shouldn’t, for they are like chalk and cheese in most of their personality traits, but they clearly understand each other. Hannah has never been an extrovert or particularly good at making real friends, and Nicola would be delighted to see her click with someone. Anyone but Malcolm.

At around six, Katie walks into the house. Though she has her own flat, she spends most of her free time in Nicola’s home, a fact for which Nicola is quite thankful. She doesn’t think loneliness does anything positive for Katie’s frame of mind. There’s an open door to all of her children and there always will be. “Hey, Mum!” she calls from the front door. “I meant to tell you the other day but I forgot. You know the job I applied for in Intensive Care? They’ve offered me it!”

Nicola doesn’t admit that she too had forgotten all about Katie’s attempts to change jobs; with Malcolm’s reappearance, Jack’s attitude and Hannah’s stubborn refusal to stay away from Malcolm, her head has been full to the brim. When Katie shows up at the living room door, Nicola smiles at her. “That’s great, sweetheart! Well done!”

“At least someone’s happy for me,” she says.

“What did Dad say?” asks Hannah.

“‘Why couldn’t you put the work in to be a doctor?’” she mimics James’ grumbling and grouchy demeanour. Her eyebrows lift slightly when she sees Malcolm sitting next to her sister. “Oh. Hello.”

Malcolm nods once; Nicola watches him as he rises to his feet. It seems to be second nature to Hannah, that she should help him up. “I should get going.”

Hannah pulls Malcolm down into a hug. “Thanks for looking after me,” she says.

It couldn’t be more obvious that Malcolm has no idea how to respond. He gingerly pats her back and tells her, “Just don’t do it again, okay? Your mum was worried sick.”

* * *

** Sunday, 12th March 2017 **

Curiosity gets the better of Nicola. She chooses to give Hannah a lift to Malcolm’s house, and sticks around to see what they get up to. There’s a marked difference in the man this afternoon; he seems more tired, like yesterday has taken its toll.

The pair of them have some sort of routine. There’s a chart Hannah sits at the kitchen table with, marking off different columns as she goes through a list and Malcolm calls back with how much he has of each item, and the date it’s marked with, or the date it was opened. From that chart, they draw up a shopping list. Nicola wonders how any daughter of hers is capable of such organisation.

“I’ll drive you to the supermarket if you want,” offers Nicola. She can see Malcolm isn’t fit to be driving today. His replies to questions are slow and he’s tired.

“We usually take a bus or a train,” shrugs Hannah. “You don’t have to.”

“Cars are better than trains,” Nicola reasons.

“We’re not all hopeless fucking claustrophobes, Nicola,” Malcolm retorts. Nicola elects to ignore that remark. It’s a surprise to see him look to Hannah to make the decision; he’s always been the one giving the orders and making up the rules as he goes along, not looking down for the right way to go.

Hannah hesitates before she says firmly, “Okay, but don’t get all uptight.”

“Me? Uptight?”

There’s a flicker of a smile on Malcolm’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears. “And if you fuck with the list, we’ll have to brutally murder you with a tin of beans and a loaf of bread.”

“Alright, alright!” Nicola says exasperatedly. “Jesus Christ! No need for the Caledonian Mafia act, Malcolm!”

Hannah grins. “Come on then.”

The way they speak to one another while Nicola drives, casually and often cheekily, anyone would be forgiven for thinking Hannah and Malcolm have known each other years rather than weeks. There’s a rapport between them Nicola is doubtful she’ll ever fully comprehend. “I’d have loved to have been a fly on the wall back then,” Hannah sniggers after Malcolm tells her that Nicola had once accidentally started a leadership bid while the party was still in government, and then said the PM was the “right man for the moment” repeatedly in front of swarming journalists.

“You conveniently forgot to include that you put my department into lockdown and fucked about like a drunk wasp most of the day,” Nicola retorts.

Even though there’s still that tension of past distrust, Nicola must admit that as she trails around the shop with them, Malcolm shows Hannah perfect respect and gratitude for her help. He cooperates more graciously than Nicola has ever known him to. She starts to believe that perhaps her concerns about him hurting her daughter are unfounded. He might not be good for Nicola, but there’s an outside chance that he may be good for Hannah.

He pays for his shopping and Hannah loads it into the back of the car. Nicola sits quietly, with Malcolm in the passenger seat, trying to figure out if she ought to say something. She knows she shouldn’t give a single flying fuck about him, but he’s still a person and she isn’t the type to ignore that. “Malcolm-” she begins, but he interrupts.

“Don’t start,” he says wearily.

“I’m not!” Nicola says. “I just…what happened? Why is your right side weak? Why did you call me Madeleine yesterday?”

“I’m not great with names.”

“You knew the name of every MP, Minister, civil servant, journalist and blogger, and gave them all at least three foul nicknames to boot,” she reminds him, her voice low so as not to be heard by Hannah. “You’ve always been good with names.”

Malcolm shrugs. “Everybody slips up now and then.”

“I can get it out of Hannah, if you’d rather.” That gets his attention. But there’s a look of apprehension in his face, and Nicola realises something. “She doesn’t know, does she?”

“She knows what happened,” Malcolm says. “I just haven’t told her what’s probably gonna happen. I was hoping to get her through her exams and off to university before she sees any of that.”

“Hannah isn’t like that. She’s not very good at making friends so when she gets on with someone, she sticks with them. She cares about you. Even I can see that.” The boot of the car slams down and Hannah walks away with the trolley. “Will you just fucking tell me!?” Nicola snaps, her patience for him out the window.

He looks around at her. She hates that resignation in his face, like he might as well just give in to her. That’s not something she’s used to seeing. “I had a stroke, just before Christmas,” he explains. “It left some damage in my brain, and now my right side doesn’t work right and my memory can be a bit shit. Easily tired, mood swings, at risk of further strokes, all that crap.”

Nicola feels something terrifyingly close to sympathy for him, but reminds herself this is probably no more than he’s earned from his years as the worst nightmare of everyone he’s ever met, not to mention the way he fucked her over in the final year of his career. “So what is it you’re not telling Hannah?” she persists ruthlessly.

“It’s gonna get worse.”

Nicola can’t say anything. What is there to say about it? Every reassurance or condolence she runs through in her head sounds insincere or clichéd.

“I’m still me. I won’t stop being me, no matter what state my body ends up in,” he asserts. He says it like he’s never been so sure of anything, but for all his faults, Malcolm is not a stupid man, and must surely know that there will eventually come a time where there’s only a fraction of who he is left in him.

“You need to tell Hannah the truth.”

“No,” he says. “Look, when I’m helping her with her schoolwork, I feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. I don’t want her to see me as any less than I am.”

“If you don’t tell her, I will,” she warns him.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growls at her. There he is. There’s the madman Nicola once knew. “If I find out you’ve told her anything more than she already knows, I’ll break your skull open with my boot and throw you in the fucking Thames.”

Hannah climbs into the back of the car and puts her seatbelt on. Nicola tears her gaze away from Malcolm and turns to smile at her daughter. “All set?” she asks.

“Yep,” Hannah says brightly.

Malcolm shoots Nicola several threatening glares on the way back to his house; unable to withstand it, Nicola helps Hannah take the shopping in and then says she must go home and iron Jack’s school uniform for the morning. It’s not a lie – the uniform does need to be ironed and Jack hasn’t got the first clue how to use an iron – but it’s not as urgent as she makes it sound as she kisses Hannah’s cheek and bids her goodbye.

There’s a sudden chill in the air, but Nicola knows it has little to do with the temperature, and everything to do with the fact Malcolm Tucker is lying to her daughter, letting her become attached to a man who, sooner or later, will no longer be there.


	5. War Paint

_ “Why in the hell do we fight on the front line when both know that we’re here on the same side?”  
‘War Paint’ (Kelly Clarkson) _

* * *

** Wednesday, April 26th 2017 **

Nicola takes little more to do with Malcolm after that. She stops short of keeping Hannah away from him; regardless of his many and varied faults, he does seem to have a positive effect on her education and morale. She’s less stressed about her schoolwork with his help, so Nicola grudgingly credits him with decent teaching abilities.

However, she is still angry with him. Hideously angry. Part of her would love to violently beat some sense into him. But, for Hannah’s sake, she refrains. Every civil word she says to that twat is for Hannah.

So when Malcolm turns up at her door late one Wednesday morning, Nicola almost slams it in his face. Hannah’s not at home; she’s at school, and Malcolm surely knows that.

“We’ve got a problem,” he says bluntly, without greeting or small talk.

“We?” Nicola repeats, her eyebrows raised.

“Well, you, then!” he snaps.

It’s with an impatient sigh that Nicola steps aside and grants him access to her home. “What is so bloody urgent that you had to come over here uninvited? Again?” she can’t help but add.

Malcolm sits down on the sofa and, from his pocket, produces a zip-lock bag. “This,” he tells her.

Nicola frowns; she struggles to see how the contents of that bag are anything to do with her, never mind a problem. “What about it?” she asks.

He looks at her incredulously, like he used to when they worked together and she said something wrong. “Fuck’s sake, Nicola, if common sense was jelly, you wouldn’t have enough to make lube for a fucking hamster!” She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment to get the image of that analogy out of her head. “There’s only been two women in my house. You and Hannah. And if that’s not yours, then there is a serious fucking problem!”

“Of course it’s not mine!”

“Which means-”

“Yes, I’m not fucking retarded, thank you!” she cuts in. “Please fucking tell me it’s not you.”

He suddenly seems furious. Insulted. “She’s a fucking teenager, Nic’la! The fuck d’you take me for!?”

Nicola realises now just how Malcolm thinks of Hannah. He sees her simply as a child, just as she does. And for all he’s proven himself to be a total prick in the past, he’d never deliberately set out to harm a child. Of that much, at the very least, Nicola can be certain.

“Sorry,” she allows him. “Have you spoken to her about it?”

“That’s your fucking job!”

“Right now you’d probably get further with her than I would,” Nicola admits. “She’s got more respect for you.”

“She does respect you.”

Nicola scoffs. “She’d quite like to murder me half the time.”

“That’s most teenagers, you fucking moron!” he exclaims. He gingerly gets to his feet and stands tall in front of Nicola. “You’ve got to talk to her. Find out what her plan is.”

She freezes. The weight of the situation strikes her like an articulated lorry on the motorway. “My daughter’s pregnant,” she whispers. “My fucking seventeen-year-old is fucking pregnant!”

“And the penny finally fucking drops,” he mutters. “What’re you gonnae do?”

She shoots him her most deadly look. “Ask the easy questions, why don’t you!?” This is his fault. He’s knocked Hannah off the rails. She wouldn’t be in this predicament if not for Malcolm’s influence. “Her exams are in a few weeks, as well!”

“What do _you_ want her to do?”

Nicola falters. She wants as easy and clear a path in life as possible for Hannah – Christ knows Nicola has never made the girl’s childhood simple – but how can she make that decision for her daughter? What if Hannah wants to keep this baby? What if she decides that she would rather be a parent than go to university? This was everything Nicola had warned all her children against, and it was Hannah – normally the most sensible of the four – who had gone and got herself into this situation. Well, not herself, Nicola reasons. It always takes two. “Do you have any idea who the father might be?” she says; she can feel her throat constricting at the very thought.

“Not a fucking clue,” Malcolm replies. Nicola hears the concern in Malcolm’s voice, and it frightens her. How can he care about the outcome of this? Five years ago he probably would have thrown her under the bus in front of the press. He’d have taken some sort of twisted, sadistic glee from her heightened anxiety. “What about Hannah’s dad? What the fuck will you say to him?”

 _That_ is a fair and rather terrifying point. What the fuck is she going to tell James? He’s infuriated enough that Hannah’s gone against his wishes and chosen Malcolm for a tutor; James will probably blame Malcolm, except he doesn’t have the capacity to recognise that Malcolm’s part in this is minimal. If Nicola’s honest with herself, she only blames Malcolm because it’s the simplest solution. “Jesus,” she moaned. “Jesus, Malcolm!”

“Calm down.”

“ _Calm down_!?” she shouts back at him shrilly. Was he looking at the same situation she was? Because there was absolutely no reason to be calm. No reason to refrain from completely losing her shit. “Don’t you _dare_ tell me to calm down!”

“What fucking good does it do if you go into a fucking anxious mess!?” he bit back at her. “Doesn’t fucking solve anything, does it?”

Nicola wants to say they’ll be fine. That they’ll manage to deal with this without Malcolm’s interference. But at the moment, Hannah has a better relationship with Malcolm than she does with Nicola, and is more likely to open up to him – regardless of what Malcolm bloody Tucker thinks he knows. She’s never known someone so infuriating; he’s usually right but even when he’s not, he still thinks he is. Nicola has always hated that about him.

“You talk to her,” Nicola says. “She gets on better with you.”

“I am _not_ having that fucking conversation with your fucking kid!”

“Somebody has to!”

“She’s _your_ daughter!”

“She’s _your_ friend!”

“Jesus fuck, Nicola!”

“I know!” she shouts. “I fucking know!”

Alarmed by the note of hysteria in her own words, Nicola sits down on the empty coffee table. What is she going to do? What _can_ she do? She’s always proclaimed that these things are a woman’s own decision, and yet she knows exactly what she wants Hannah to do already. As if he’s read her mind, Malcolm says, his tone lower and somewhat kindlier, “The bottom line is you can’t force her one way or the other. All you can do is be her mum – be there for her, whatever she decides to do.”

Even when he’s trying to be helpful and supportive, he gets on her last damn nerve. How dare he talk to her about forcing someone’s hand or backing them up? Doesn’t he hear his own hypocrisy? “Get out, Malcolm,” she orders him; her head is beginning to feel like an axe has been struck right through her skull.

“I thought you wanted my help.”

“I thought you weren’t giving me your help,” she retorts.

He holds her death glare intently; it’s been a long time since she’s been this uncertain of him. Why bother arguing with her if he’s going to fucking involve himself either way? Does he relish making her feel like shit?

Malcolm sighs and sits back down on the couch, leaning forwards as he faces her. “I don’t want to interfere.”

“You fucking love interfering!”

There’s almost a smile on his face as she says it; the worst part is that she nearly smiles herself. If there’s one thing she ought not to do, it’s crack a smile. She has no right to do that when everything has gone so badly wrong.

Nicola can’t remember ever feeling so bloody helpless. These are not her decisions to make, and yet she knows what is best for her daughter. She knows Hannah is far too young to be a mother. She knows Hannah must focus on her exams without distraction. Though she doesn’t want Hannah to have to go through an abortion, she knows it’s likely the best thing for her. But she also knows Hannah. She knows Hannah well enough to know she will want to have this child. That’s the biggest problem they have.

Perhaps they can convince her. Perhaps they can argue that she struggles enough with her education without having a pregnancy to think about. They can tell her she’s not cut out for motherhood at her age.

But how can they do that? What if they tell her that and she never wants to have kids at all because they’ve told her she’s not mother material?

 _They_. No, she cannot rely on Malcolm’s support. He’s more likely to dissent just to see her life made that little bit more difficult. She must treat this situation like Malcolm is a villain. He _is_ a villain, anyway. He’s proven that at every turn.

Nicola gets up and goes to the kitchen for some ibuprofen before her skull cracks open. Still in possession of enough sanity to remember not to take it on an empty stomach, she grabs a bourbon cream from the jar and a glass of water.

It’s been a while since her claustrophobia has really been an issue (though probably only because she avoids every possible trigger) but suddenly the house is too small. The kitchen walls seem to move, like the room is shrinking around her. She is trapped in this fucking house with this fucking knowledge. There’s no way out of it and definitely no way around it. All the windows and doors are locked. The ties that bind her to her family and her home now bind her to these walls, unable to move or even breathe.

“Nicola?” she hears Malcolm call out. When he appears at the door, she can see his gait and the weakness in him; that frightened her, as well, because before now Malcolm’s biggest weakness had been his inability to play nice with others. “Well, this isn’t the fucking answer, is it!?” he says exasperatedly.

She glares at him, daring him to comment on her mental health after dropping an atomic bomb on top of her. His irritation with her is obvious as he goes to her and takes the biscuit and tablets out of her hand. He passes her the glass of water and says to her, “Take a drink. Try and settle down a bit.”

Though she’d much rather throw the glass at him, she knows he has a valid point and takes a sip. He takes it from her shaking hand and puts it down on the counter.

“It passes,” he reminds her. “It always passes.”

Nicola nods her head, only to let Malcolm know she’s heard him. She closes her eyes and focuses on her chest – not on the ties that bind her, but on its movement. The way air flows in and out. It’s a miracle, really, that anything is able to do that without even thinking about it. Slowly, those ties loosen. They don’t fall away, but they bind her gently without cutting into her lungs.

“Believe it or not, Nicola, I’m not your enemy here,” Malcolm says quietly. “We both want Hannah to be okay.”

“You could wash your hands of all this right now, you know.”

“I don’t want to.”

She looks at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“I want to help her out. Might bring me some comfort when I really do start losing my fucking marbles,” he grins. Nicola does not smile. In all her panic about Hannah, she has almost forgotten that the damage to Malcolm’s body extends to his memory, and that he won’t always be fit for dealing with Hannah.

And so, she gathers all the coldness she can find and says to him, “I’ll see to Hannah. You can go now.”

That answer surprises Malcolm – that much is blindingly obvious – but he does not argue with her. He lets out a sigh, and he gives her the oddest look he’s ever given her, but he goes. The front door slams and Nicola is alone again. No plan, no information, no place to go, no ally to help her. It’s only when she stares around her in horror that she understands that it’s exactly what she’s asked for.


End file.
